“...it is the first time that ever I heard breaking of ribs was sport for ladies.”Who: Imenry Barras, Elsa Zerbino VargasWhere: RedcliffeWhen: Morning of the 1 FerventisSummary: Keep your friends close and your enemies closer. After all, asking someone to teach you how to fight gives them the perfect excuse to beat you up...Rating: B for bitchy. Yesssssss.

That night, Elsa Zerbino Vargas had dreamt about wolves. Her dreams were always vivid, filled with people that told her things she could not understand, wearing faces she did not recall. Not this night. This night she was a black wolf bitch, sleek as moonlight, untiring, graceful as death. She ran through unending forests, two other animals at her side, one a huge lion, shining coldly gold and the other another wolf, scraggly grey, but with a fierceness in it's eyes that belied it's dishevelled pelt. But her companions were there one moment and then gone the next and suddenly the never ending forest did end, and in front of her another vastness was spreading, a black sickness covering the land, black tongues of pure wrong, pure evil stretching towards her. Darkness swarmed around her, trying to hold her down, but her teeth were sharp and her claws even sharper. Darkness fell before her.

When she woke, Elsa came to with the absolute knowledge that she was going to die. But she did not want to. She didn't want to get killed without knowing who she was or even where she was. The dark man had made it quite clear she wasn't allowed to leave and more of those dark creatures – darkspawn – could arrive any time. And while she did have a name to her strange ability, it didn't give her any more control over it, any more knowledge about it, about the magic. Sitting up, shivering slightly in the cold morning light, she fumbled after her water stained leather bag, finding the shining, silvery dagger in it. It had laid there, seldom used, since she was born. She had no skill to handle it, indeed, she had shuddered to touch it's steel surface, as if there were bad memories connected to it. Perhaps there were, she had no idea. The thought of using it, of wielding it, was terribly distasteful, but the thought of dying was even more so. She could not trust the fire and the ice, not when it did not do her bidding. She needed some other insurance that she was going to survive.

Rising from her makeshift bed of nets and coiled rope, Elsa tried to turn her hair back into some semblance of order, shaking her threadbare skirts out and then stepping outside. The village was waking up slowly, but she was awake and somehow she thought her quarry would be too.Her decision was made then, and her feet was taking her towards the inn, and up it's rickety stair before she let herself think any more about it.Raising a hand she stared at it, the pale skin, the slim fingers, before pursing her lips and knocking at the door twice.